


Heart in Hand

by Adanwen



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: AU, Book/Movie Crossover, Gen, bromance galore
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-06
Updated: 2014-04-14
Packaged: 2018-01-18 10:13:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1424713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adanwen/pseuds/Adanwen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Multi-chapter fic, AU. Things turn out differently when Boromir arrives one day late for the Council of Elrond. Focuses mainly on Boromir’s closest relationships. Will cover the whole timeline of the books.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1 - Of Hobbits and Men

This will be a multi-chapter story centered around Boromir and people who are important to him (Pippin, Merry, Aragorn, Éomer, Éowyn, and Faramir foremost). Basically it will be the War of the Ring from his view, but with a lot of AU twists. Whenever I re-read The Fellowship of the Ring I wonder what would have happened if Boromir had arrived only a bit later at Rivendell and also, later on, what if they had listened to Boromir and would have taken the damn Gap of Rohan! So that's where it started for me.

_Disclaimer: this is all Tolkien's fault._

### Chapter 1 – Of Hobbits and Men

Pippin covered his head with one of the impossibly soft and fluffy pillows and tried to fall asleep. It was no use.

THOMP. THOMP. THOMP.

Silence.

THOMP. THOMP. THOMP. THOMP.

"By every carrot that I ever stole, there must be a congregation of Proudfoots assembled up there!"

Enough being enough, Pippin hopped out of the large bed and stormed out of his room in direction of the stairs, not bothering about changing his night-clothes.

_Best to remind them what time it is and that they should be in bed like the rest of decent people!_

Having reached the room directly above his own, he summed up all of his Took-courage and knocked on the wooden door. The loud footsteps stopped for a moment before they came nearer and the door was opened with an impulsive jerk.

"What is it?"

Pippin momentarily forgot everything he had wanted to accuse the owner of this room of, when he was barked at by a huge, dark-haired man. A very angry looking man, who looked like he could rip a hobbit into half with ease.

Said man's gaze stared at thin air for a second, before he looked down and spotted Pippin. He must have given a fairly pathetic impression, because his eyes became much friendlier all of a sudden.

"Aha! Another halfling, I see. I had no idea there would be such an assembly of you here."

It looked as if Pippin was trying to make extra-big smoke rings, like Gandalf, except that he wasn't smoking; nor talking for that matter, though it can be assumed that he was trying to.

The man frowned, apparently worried that he might have damaged the little creature in some way with his violent door-opening and loud exclamation.

"Are you all right, little one?"

A big pair of green eyes widened and finally Pippin found his voice.

"I'm not little, you are simply terribly tall!"

The man gave a big laugh, proportional to his size, and somehow, from that moment on, Pippin knew what a big heart was hidden beneath all that pride and grumpiness.

"Well then, forgive my lack of manners and let me introduce myself. I am Boromir, son of Denethor, the steward of Minas Tirith."

He placed his hand over his heart and nodded gravely.

"Nice to meet you, Boromir! I'm Peregrin Took, son of Paladin Took, Thain of The Shire, but you can just call me Pippin."

He placed his hands in his pockets and bowed so enthusiastically that his head nearly slammed into the floor.

There was another bout of laughter, then Boromir suddenly looked confused.

"And to what do I owe the honour of your visit, if I may ask?"

"Oh, that!" By now, Pippin had completely forgotten about his previous anger and frustration. "I was simply wondering who was making such a thunderous noise. You see, my room's directly beneath yours."

Boromir blinked a few times, then thought of what he had been doing for the last twenty minutes, and smiled ruefully.

"I'm truly sorry about that. I had no idea my pacing would be cumbersome to someone else."

"Well, it's all right, just stop it!" Pippin suggested good-naturedly. "What were you doing that for anyway? I mean, it's not like they imprisoned you in here."

A sad smile appeared on Borormir's even features. "No, they didn't. But now that I'm here, I'm starting to have doubts whether I really should be."

He paused and saw that Pippin's face was crumpled in confusion and worry. So he put it simpler and not quite so worrying – something he had practiced all his life for his little brother.

"Today's conversation with Lord Elrond was very tiring. He told me about the things they discussed in yesterday's council. And I miss my home."

"Oh!" Pippin's face lit up in understanding. "Frodo told us all about it. Well, not all. Actually, he may think we didn't notice, but he left out some important stuff. Merry and I eavesdropped, but you mustn't tell anyone," he added in a conspiratorial tone.

"Uh. I won't. How many halflings are here exactly?"

Boromir wasn't sure whether to be flattered by this display of confidence or alarmed at the lack of security at this supposedly secret council.

"Just the five of us. Bilbo's been here for a long time of course, but Frodo, Sam, Merry, and me, we all arrived together just a while ago." Pippin shrugged, maybe a little disappointed at the lack of hobbit sense and hobbit entertainment at their current location, no matter how beautiful and awe-inspiring it might be. "But why don't you go home? And where is your home?"

It would be an understatement to say that Boromir was flabbergasted at the tiny creature's curiosity and lack of decorum. He had never met someone like that. The only person who came to mind was his brother, but at the age of eight.

"I hopefully shall ride back home soon, now that my riddle is solved. The White City lies far away from here, in the south, and a bit to the east. Have you never seen it on a map?"

The thought that someone in the west of Middle Earth didn't know where Minas Tirith was, nagged a bit at Boromir's pride. He had spoken about many people not knowing what he and the soldiers of the White City were sacrificing in order to keep them safe; but to think that there was a whole race that didn't even know of the existence of Gondor, was pure mockery.

Pippin didn't seem to see it as quite so dramatic.

"Probably. There's an old one hanging in the Smials, but I never studied it. That's something for Bilbo and Frodo. But as far as I understood it, he will be going south too. Maybe I can visit you in Minas Tirith some day, and then you can show me how ignorant I was."

Once more, Boromir was shocked. Just when he had thought he could classify this unknown being and put a label on it, it surprised him further with a display of astuteness that disproved his former assumption. He felt compelled to apologise again, something that he rarely felt the need to do; and it irked him.

"Maybe you will. But excuse me now, master Pippin; I should get some rest, and you probably too."

"Yes, certainly. Your pacing quite wore me out!"

The cheeky words barely left his mouth before he had already rounded the corner towards the stairs. Boromir briefly wondered whether the hobbit had sensed his annoyance and had tried to tease him as much as cheer him up. But then he just shook his head in incredulity and closed the door.

The next day, Pippin woke up not knowing exactly what to do. Now, that was no strange thing in itself – back in The Shire he never made plans going further than breakfast. The new aspect was that this suddenly bothered him. After nagging so much that Elrond and Gandalf had finally allowed him to accompany Frodo on his dangerous task, he found that he didn't want to think more closely on what he had begged for. He'd rather set out at once, but of course they had to wait for the return of the messengers that had been sent out.

_Better to go out and explore this place then, than to lie in bed and ruminate!_

He hopped out of bed at once, dressed in a topsy-turvy manner, and rushed out to drag Merry to breakfast.

Two hours later (a hasty breakfast by hobbit standards), Merry and Pippin strolled through the lush gardens of Rivendell. However, they had absolutely no idea what to do.

Explore every corner of the house? Check. Walk, then run through all of the gardens? Check. Annoy Frodo, Sam, and Bilbo? Check. Talk to the elves in order to get enigmatic answers to their questions? Check.

"Now Merry, I really can't think of anything else! If I knew where Gandalf was, I'd even be so bored as to bother him. I had really thought there would be more to do here!" Pippin flailed his arms around listlessly to emphasize his boredom.

"Well, I wouldn't mind having a look at the old maps and books in the library, but I guess–"

The enthusiasm of Pippin's negation couldn't wait for Merry to finish his sentence. "NO! Nonononononononono no! You can't do that to me!"

"Very well." Merry put his hands in the pockets of his waistcoat and wore that smug expression Pippin hated so much. "Make a better proposition then. If you don't, I'll go!"

"That's not fair!" The lower lip trembling that Pippin sported was known as the famous Pip's Pout throughout The Shire, but unfortunately for him it didn't work on Merry. He had become immune to it a long time ago.

"Don't even make the effort to try the puppy eyes, Pip, you know it doesn't work on me either."

Pouting turned into scowling. If it had been hard for Pippin to think of something to do before, now his frustration made it nearly impossible. "How about we try to climb that big pagoda?" He suggested hopefully.

Merry frowned deeply. "We tried that yesterday and I nearly broke my foot!"

"All right then… What about stealing some food from the kitchen?"

"Pippin! We tried that the day before yesterday and they said if we did it again they'd tell Gandalf."

"Why, I had no idea you were such a coward, dear cousin!"

Both hobbits glared at each other for a moment.

"I'm not a coward!"

"Yes, you are!"

"Am not!"

"I assure you!"

"Take it back!"

"Never!"

"Take it back or I'll–"

"Shut up!"

Pippin blinked rapidly in succession. "You'll shut up?"

Merry looked unsure for a second, as if considering the possibility that he really had said something completely different from what he had intended to say, and in a much deeper voice too.

"I'll make you!" The deep voice said again, but this time it was accompanied by Boromir's form appearing around the corner of the main house.

"Uh-oh," was all Pippin could utter as a warning to his cousin, seeing that he had already experienced the Gondorian's temper.

"I was assured by Lord Elrond that Imladris was a peaceful house and a haven of tranquillity for everyone. But somehow it doesn't quite live up to that," Boromir growled at them, his eyes sparkling like embers in the dark. Pippin wouldn't have been surprised if he had bared his teeth.

"You're as grumpy as Gandalf!" Pippin covered his mouth with two hands, but it was too late. The words had been quicker than his reason, and now all he could do was to stare up at Boromir in shock, while Merry stared at his cousin in perfect imitation. But funny enough, the explosion they both were waiting for didn't come.

"Gandalf?" Boromir looked from him to Merry and back, half expecting another halfling to jump out of the shrubbery around them. "Who's Gandalf?"

Merry gave his younger cousin a significant look, but obviously he hadn't learned from his mistake and opened his mouth again.

"Why, you don't know Gandalf? Everyone knows him! He's our guide and friend, and he should be wandering around here somewhere. Merry, did you see Gandalf today?"

The addressed hobbit was silent for a while – maybe in a fruitless attempt of demonstrating to Pippin how it was done – and hesitated when he finally spoke. He wasn't completely sure of his friend's intentions, which disturbed him. "No, I have no idea where he is. But I suspect he's either with Lord Elrond or Bilbo." Then his eyes grew wide and he grinned maliciously at Pippin. "But maybe if I take a quick walk to the library, I might find him there, or could inquire further!"

And before Pippin had time to exhale the enormous amount of air he had just taken in with his lungs; Merry had already vanished inside the house, his bare feet making mischievous (or so it seemed to Pippin) pitty-pat sounds on the marble floor.

"You will regret this!" Pippin called, after he was already gone from sight, but a distinct cackle could still be heard from far away.

"What was that about?" Boromir asked with a, by now, more confused than angry frown.

"Nothing. He's just taken the first chance to get to his beloved library and leave me all alone to die of boredom." Obviously Pippin had forgotten about Boromir's anger as well, judging from his sad eyes. He sighed, and sat down on a nearby stone bench, his hairy feet dangling in the air.

Boromir studied the little hobbit, and wasn't surprised at all at the quick change of mood. Ever since the last night he had had the feeling that being puzzled was a perpetual side effect of dealing with these strange creatures. He hadn't yet figured out whether this was a good or a bad thing, though.

So for lack of knowing what exactly to do now, he just sat down next to the sulking hobbit. He had just returned from a long walk around the terrain, but contrary to his original intention, he wasn't feeling any wiser or calmer than before. His future path seemed to be just as unclear and dark.

"So you're bored, little one? How can that be, when there's so much wonder around you?"

Pippin's sadness was emphasized by the fact that he didn't leap up at the nickname. "I don't know, I probably should be out of my head, just like Sam. But I've never been one for sitting inside all day and living on poems and old manuscripts."

Boromir chuckled, which made Pippin look up with a shy grin. The company of different races was new to him as well, and Boromir was only the second human he was getting to know. He found it quite marvellous how much he differed from Aragorn: while the latter seemed to be always balanced and calm, with a somewhat mysterious aura surrounding him, Boromir was impulsive and prone to passionate emotions, wearing his heart on his sleeve.

"Me neither, to be honest. Originally, my brother wanted to come here, but I convinced him to let me go instead, since the road would be long and dangerous. But I think he would have loved this place much more than I, and would have appreciated it more. He always dreamed of seeing elves and far off places." He stopped with a sad look in his eyes. Pippin could see that the thought of his brother pained him, but he was also curious to learn more about him.

"Is he like you? Big and strong and kind?"

He may have worn his heart on his sleeve, but Boromir wasn't used to having it complimented. His sleeves (or his pride) were a pretty thick cover most of the time. "Umm."

Pippin made a mental note that humans blushed just like hobbits and that he should like to try and study the same reaction on elves and dwarves.

"He's not as tall as I am, if you mean that. He's no warrior either, although he certainly can handle a sword. But in size of brain and heart I think he beats me."

"Don't say that! Well, I can't judge, since I don't know him, but you shouldn't be hard on yourself! My Ma always says, 'Be decent to everyone, including yourself.'"

Boromir smiled leniently. "Your mother must be a very wise woman."

"Well, she also made me eat soap once, when I was swearing, so I'm not quite sure." Pippin screwed up his snub nose at the memory.

"Only convinces me more."

"Hey!"

Their merry laughter was interrupted by an echo of Pippin's words.

"Hey!"

Merry had returned with company, and looked a little put out that Boromir and Pippin weren't actually crying their eyes out at him having left. But his face lit up when he saw their shocked expressions.

"Yes, indeed, I found Gandalf. You didn't think that I would, did you?"

"Peregrin Took!" The old wizard boomed. "Why did you send your nerve-racking cousin to drag me all the way out here, away from my important studies?"

Pippin was reduced to making invisible smoke-rings once more. But this time it wasn't Boromir doing the shouting, so he spoke up for him instead. "Excuse me. It was actually on my behalf that... Merry? here volunteered to go and find you. I am Boromir, son of Denethor, from Minas Tirith." He bowed deeply. "I had told the halflings that I haven't met you yet and they thought it was a shame. They think most highly of you."

Now it was Gandalf who didn't know what to say. He humphed and grumbled for a while before returning to intelligible speech. "Welcome to Imladris, Lord Boromir. My last visit in the White City was rather rushed, I'm afraid, and I had no time to spare for you or your brother."

Boromir looked at him in confusion for a moment, but then recognition spread over his features. "Why, you're Mithrandir! I had no idea you went by the name of Gandalf. It has been a long time indeed since I last saw you, although Faramir never stopped wishing he could be your apprentice."

Gandalf smiled like an old man, who was reminded of his grandson. But he didn't pursue the topic. "Lord Elrond told me about your riddle. I hope you're satisfied with the solution he gave you?"

All sense of wonder vanished from Boromir's face in an instant. "Satisfied with the solution, but not with its meaning. I still think it's foolish to–"

"You shouldn't talk about this out here! Even in this place of safety it has become dangerous to speak too freely," the wizard interrupted him.

There was a moment of silence when everyone seemed to be listening for some kind of confirmation of Ganalf's words. However, the wind whispered as usual, the leaves fell softly, and the birds sang as they had done every day.

"Aragorn!"


	2. Chapter 2 - In Learning You Will Teach And In Teaching You Will Learn

Merry started, Pippin squeaked, and Boromir reached for his sword (which he wasn't carrying with him). Gandalf had apparently spoken to thin air, but then they saw a man coming towards them from the arcade in front of the house. How had Gandalf noticed him? 

Pippin could sense how Boromir tensed with every step that Aragorn took in their direction. When he had reached them he bowed his head to all and looked at Gandalf expectantly. 

“Aragorn, have you met Lord Boromir yet? He rode all the way from Minas Tirith.” 

There was a mischievous sparkle in Gandalf's eyes when he said this, and Pippin thought that he looked much younger all of a sudden. 

Before Aragorn could answer, Boromir did so for him. 

“Lord Elrond introduced us briefly yesterday.” He was very thin-lipped all of a sudden and a long, vertical wrinkle appeared on his forehead. 

Aragorn acknowledged Boromir's words with a tip of his head. If he had noticed the other man's annoyance then he didn't show it.

“So did you think about coming to Minas Tirith, or will that take you another 40 years?”

Boromir didn't seem to care about Gandalf's dangerous frown, which Pippin would label as a critical 7 on the ten scales of his Gandalf temper barometer.

“Are you asking for my help then?” Aragorn asked as calm as always, which infuriated Boromir further.

“I'm not asking for your help,” he answered in the most accomplished demonstration of haughtiness Pippin had ever seen. “But I won't deny that it would be needed.”

A slight smile tugged at Aragorn's lips, as if he had seen the same behaviour before and a long time ago.

“I give you my word that I will come to the city of kings. But I'm also part of the fellowship that is to accompany Frodo on his way to the dark lands. So I can't tell you exactly when I will come, because we might encounter a lot of unexpected hindrances and dangers on our journey.

Pippin had no idea what Mount Doom looked like, but it certainly had to have a close similarity to Boromir's explosion of swearing that followed these words.

When he had cooled down enough to utter intelligible words again, his eyes were still flaring.

“What's that supposed to mean? Have you no sense of duty? Our people are dying!”

“Duty means everything to me,” Aragorn replied, and the only indication that he was angry now, was the cold flash in his eyes. “That is why I can't just let this hobbit, who has become a friend to me, go unaided on his quest. A quest to destroy Isildur's bane, my ancestor. I have the duty to right the wrong he did when he took the ring for himself.”

“Isildur is dead. And so will be Gondor, because her king has forgotten his home.”

“Enough!”

Gandalf glared at Boromir – so much so, that Pippin found it necessary to hide behind the long gondorian's robe. He himself didn't even blink though. 

“If you're not bright enough to understand that the only way to save your home and the rest of Middle Earth is to destroy the ring, you shouldn't have bothered to come the whole way from Minas Tirith.”

“Gandalf, please-”

Aragorn tried to appease the wizard, but no one seemed to heed him.

Boromir glowered at Gandalf and Aragorn as if they had just declared the doom of the world of men. Pippin thought someone should reconcile them, since they were all on the same side, but he had no idea how to do that.

“Very well, then. I won't bother you with my petty problems anymore.”

And with that he left in a rustle of dark blue garments.

Still no words came to Pippin's mind, but his pleading eyes clearly spoke: “why?”

“Oh, don't look at me like that, boy. Run after him, now!”

His eyes tried to communicate “you want me to fix your mess” but his mouth was so busy grinning, it quite ruined the serious notion.

Retreating further into the labyrinth of Rivendell's vast gardens, Boromir hadn't walked far and was now pacing up and down in front of a beautifully carved fountain.

“Is this a habit of yours?”

The frustrated man looked up from the ground, but his face didn't relax. Merry hobbits wouldn't save his people.

Since he only received somewhat of a growled snarl in reply, Pippin realised he had to change the tune.

“Gandalf doesn't mean it that way, you know. He shouts at me like that at least thrice a week, and still he makes everything turn out right for us in the end. And he knows what he's doing, he's good at that.”

“It's not Gandalf I'm disappointed in!” Boromir declared; so outraged, that he was actually tearing at his smooth hair.

Pippin watched him resume his pacing for a while. Such a strong, determined man, and yet he was as helpless as a child.

“Well, you can trust Aragorn just as much! If it wasn't for him, the black riders would have killed us. From what you all say, I know this is a sort of crazy thing to attempt, but if Aragorn and Gandalf are with us, I know it will work out. And he gave you his word. He won't let you down.”

Much to Pippin's surprise, Boromir stopped his fruitless walking abruptly and stared at him in shock.

“Us? Does that mean you'll be going on this mad quest as well?”

Misinterpreting his incredulity, Pippin drew himself up to his full height.

“Of course I am! Merry and me would never leave Frodo and Sam, especially not when they're walking right into danger! I know Elrond didn't want us to come, but we won't be torn apart now that we've come so far!”

Boromir still stared, if not more than before. At length he spoke.

“I don't know what to marvel more at; the fact that Elrond and Gandalf and anyone else in their right mind allowed this or your faithfulness and courage.”

Just then, Merry joined them, chewing at the apple he always seemed to carry around.

“Are you two all right? Pippin, is it safe to be near him?”

It wasn't possible for Boromir to feel more anger, which was probably the only reason he didn't scream at Merry, but only stared a little more. A vein on his temple was thumping visibly though.

“You can be quite assured, Merry, there's no danger. Boromir's just pacing it out.”

“Merry, is it true that you two are going to accompany Frodo?”

Boromir was still serious, but now for another reason.

“Yes, of course,” Merry replied matter-off-factly, taking a big bite from his apple.

“Madness!” The pacing was resumed, more violently than ever. “This whole place is full of mad people!”

Had he seen Merry's and Pippin's faces, they would have clearly communicated to him that, according to them, he was the maddest of them all.

“Mad or not, with Gandalf and Strider on our site, it can't be that bad. And I heard an elf from Mirkwood and a dwarf from Erebor will be joining us as well, so that's plenty of company and all good warriors!”

Merry tried to calm Boromir, but it only seemed to darken his mood, instead of brightening it. He came to stand in front of them and his expression had changed, like a hot blaze changed to flickering embers.

“You are naïve. But you will soon loose your childish view of the world. And it might very well be that you will also loose your life in that.”

His dark words frightened them, but their questioning eyes didn't seem to have comprehended them fully. Even though the sun was warming their skin from a cloudless sky; even though the fountain gurgled and bubbled as merrily as a mountain brook in spring; something like a shadow crossed all of their hearts and they felt a cold chill gripping their bones.

Then Boromir sighed, and it was because he had taken some kind of hard decision, or so Pippin thought.

“Very well. Since I am the only one with some sense left here, I will have to take the responsibility of preparing you for your great adventure. Not that there's nearly enough time to do so, who knows if the messengers might not return tomorrow. But I can give you at least a basic...skill set.”

Merry and Pippin looked as clueless as ever.

“Skillset?” Pippin echoed.

“To defend yourselves. Do you have weapons?”

“We do!” Merry replied eagerly, apparently keen to practise his sword fighting.

“Our swords from the Barrow Hills. We haven't really used them yet, but-”

“Does that mean you'll train us?” 

Pippin's eyes glistened like those of the little hobbit children during Gandalf's firework. He didn't even notice Merry glowering at him for his interruption.

“I shall, if you bring your swords here. But it will take a lot of time and sweat.”

The hobbits ran off before he had finished speaking. They didn't tarry long in their rooms, just grabbed their sword and shot out into the garden again like lightning bolts.

“Do you reckon he'll be able to teach us anything?” Merry asked in an unconcerned tone before shortly before reaching the point where they had left Boromir.

“I don't know, but I do know that he was smiling again when we ran off, so that's an achievement already!”

The next weeks passed in a whirlwind of colours: October had left for good and with it the red, orange, and yellow of the trees. November brought misty days of golden leaves, that were either bathed and shimmering in icy rain or framed by crisp frost spikes. All this time, Boromir taught the hobbits about defending, attacking, parrying, and footwork. Pippin noticed that he was growing more restless and anxious with every day that passed. Whenever he told them about Minas Tirith and his brother (always after long nagging and begging), he ended saying that he was needed at home and should return soon. One day – Pippin had been very unfocused this morning and had incited several attacks of frustrated hair tearing on side of their teacher- Pippin had simply asked:

“why don't you just leave then?”

Boromir had made a perplexed face, apparently taken aback by the question. He looked as if he never had considered this obvious option before. His eyes moved quickly and he seemed to hold an inner dialogue.

“Boromir?”

“What? Oh, well yes, it's not that easy, is it?”

Having snapped out of it, he tried to act as if everything was all right. He grinned at Pippin and ruffled his hair.

“I still have a job to finish here after all, don't I?”

After that, they didn't speak about the topic for a long time. Usually it was just the three of them, but sometimes Frodo and Sam joined them, to cheer them on and pick up a few tips. Gandalf only appeared once, or at least it was the only time Pippin saw him watching them. He was standing on a balcony overlooking the courtyard they were training in, smoking his pipe. The only reason for noticing him at all, was that Merry had attacked his cousin so fervently; he had stumbled backwards and fallen onto the ground. Staring up into the sky for a moment, he thought he saw Gandalf winking at him, although his expression was a gloomy one.

December came, and with it the first snow. It wasn't much, even the hobbits had experienced such tender feathers that almost melted as soon as they touched the ground, but nevertheless it was a clear sign that time was moving on and winter was awaiting them on their quest. 

“My feet will freeze on this ground!” Merry complained, as they stepped out into the haze, which had swallowed the sun days ago.

“You'll get much more snow when you set out, so you'll better get used to it,” Boromir retorted, stepping out of a door on the other side of the house, putting on his thick leather gloves.

Rolling his eyes, Merry ran over to meet him in the middle of the courtyard. Pippin followed slowly; his thickest winter scarf tied to many times around his neck and jaw, he hardly looked fit to fight.

“What's the lesson today, Boromir? I hope it won't be as strenuous as the blocking marathon you put us through last week, because Pippin has caught a little cold, you see.

A mumbled comment emerged from somewhere between the layers of scarf, but neither Boromir nor Merry could decode it, so they simply ignored it.

“Orcs won't take mercy on you, whether you have a cold or not,” the man remarked dryly.

“Oh, come on! But you're no orc, are you?” 

Stopping to fidget with his right hand glove, Boromir shot the little hobbit a look, that could have come straight out of Gandalf's firework box.

“I just mean that we should take as much rest as possible before we set out into the wild!” Merry rowed back. “If we're already half-dead before, it will be very easy for orcs and who knows what else to stop us.”

“Quite true,” Boromir condescended, finally finished with fussing around and holding his sword ready at hand. “But better to be sick and know how to handle a sword than just be sick, eh?”

Pippin glowered at him from his scarfy depths and thus it happened that Boromir actually laughed heartily for the first time in two weeks.

“Come now, I won't be too hard. You should be glad that my old sword master Maedhros isn't here to drill you. He would have made you run around the house 10 times just for asking to be easy on you.”

“That explains a lot,” Merry muttered into his cousin's ear.

“I heard that!” Boromir interjected cheerily, while getting into fighting position.

Both hobbits rolled their eyes in synchrony and got their weapons ready. Pippin refused to take off his scarf though. He only removed a few layers covering his mouth, so he could actually communicate. 

“But don't complain if you all catch a cold from me then. I warned you!”

“Orcs won't warn you!” Boromir yelled, and before they could roll their eyes, he attacked them with a ferocious jump foreward.

Merry ducked, Pippin squeaked, and both ran to hide behind a plant pot.

“No! Not again!” Boromir threw his sword down in anger; then realised that it made him look undignified, looked around in embarrassment, and picked it up with a self-conscious little cough.

“I'm trying to teach you how to defend yourselves, not how to hide! You're already good enough at that, I figure.”

Pippin's head emerged from behind the pot.

“But I thought it was about surviving?”

“It is! But there are places and enemies you can't just run away from! That's why I'm trying to teach you something here!”

The rising amount of Boromir's frustration was watched in fascination by Pippin. Today he was displaying an interesting mix of pacing and hair-tearing, which was quite entertaining.

But suddenly he stopped. A sort of mischievous twinkle entered his eyes, rather disturbing to Merry and Pippin.

“Now, look.”

Pippin mouthed a silent “oh” when he pulled out an apple from his pocket.

“Some more training and whoever fights better gets this shiny apple as reward.”

Merry was already standing in the middle of the courtyard again, before Pippin could give him a sideways glance.

“Hey! Wait for me!”

About an hour later, Merry and Pippin were still doing their best to block and counter-attack. It just seemed like Boromir had finally found the perfect way to fuel a hobbit's motivation. Sure, they were still complaining every five minutes and threatened to collapse, but in spite of that, they were learning fast and showed much more enthusiasm than they had done the days before.

“Good parade, Merry! Now just try to hold your wrist a bit more like this, and you're good.”

“Pippin! Keep up your defense!”

“I'm trying to! I just can't think of keeping up five things at the same time!”

“By now, the footwork should be more or less intuitive.”

“More or less!”

“Looks more like less to me, Pip!”

Boromir had to stop for a moment to prevent the two cousins from fighting each other. 

“Come, come – if only you'd attack me with the same ferocity!”

Maybe he shouldn't have said that, or maybe it was just the fact that he was distracted for a split second that brought about his downfall. All he knew was, that one moment he saw Aragorn stepping around the corner of the house, and the other he was suddenly lying on his back with two fierce tickling monsters squeezing the air out of his lungs. 

“For the Shire!” they shouted in unison.

Had Boromir not been very busy shouting and laughing at the same time, he would have heard a deep chuckle coming nearer and growing stronger.

“All right, lads, that's enough!”

Aragorn had decided to intervene, but the hobbits had licked blood it seemed and were in no mood to relent. Before he knew what he had gotten himself into, Aragorn's feet were were being hurled from beneath him and he had the same view at the sky as Boromir. 

It was their victims luck that the apple had fallen to the ground as well, for now the hobbits saw it rolling away from them and soon forgot their warrior spirit.

Tears of mirth were rolling down Boromir's cheecks when he sat up, but as soon as he faced Aragorn, his expression tensed again.

“Looks like you finally found a way to kindle their Took-sides.”

Boromir had no idea what a Took-side was, yet he noticed the other man's choice of words.

“Finally?”

“Well, I travelled here with them from Bree. It wasn't one of my easiest adventures, so to speak.”

“It's true!” Pippin had lost the apple-war and was once again feeling like whining. “He didn't even allow us second breakfast, can you believe that?”

His face a perfect blank, Boromir looked from Aragorn to Pippin, and then to the happily chewing Merry. He wasn't entirely sure whether this wasn't some kind of joke.

“Uuh. Yeah. Sounds terrible.”

He got up and brushed the dust from his clothes. He thought he heard a faint sigh as Aragorn unfolded his long limps and stood as well, but he wasn't sure. At the moment he thought it best not to get into another debate, so he kept quiet.

“Are we done now, Boromir?” Pippin looked up at their teacher with his big, watery green eyes – in the background Merry was sniggering secretly. “Surely we fought better than you today!” And the heart-warming glow was replaced by a sneaky twinkle.

“Ah well.” Boromir tried to look as dignified as possible, sticking his nose into the air. “Technically, that wasn't exactly fair.”

“Orcs wouldn't be fair either!” Merry shot back, a look of ultimate triumph on his still chewing face.

He sighed dramatically in defeat, but the hobbits knew their swords-master well enough by now to recognise the slight twitching around the corners of his mouth. Pippin untangled himself and threw his scarf upwards with a loud “Hurray!” and before Boromir could enquire on the sudden, wondrous healing of his cold; both were already running towards the house in fascinating speed.

“Wait a minute! Merry, Pippin! I've got news!”

At Aragorn's call, both stopped dead and turned around in surprise. His voice had been far more serious than his joining in their antics would have made them believe to be possible. 

Boromir raised his eyebrows expectantly. “What is it? Why didn't you say that earlier?”

“I was slightly distracted,” the Dúnadan replied without shame and a nod towards the hobbits, who had run back to them. Already they were tugging at his clothes like excited little children.

“I just wanted to inform you that Lord Elrond has asked for your presence after lunch. Elladan and Elrohir, and the last of the messengers have returned, so we must set out soon.”

The hobbits gasped, while Boromir stared at Aragorn in open bewilderment. How could he have held that kind of important news in for so long?

“If I were you, I wouldn't be late. It seems to me that Lord Elrond would rather revoke his agreement to your joining the fellowship.”

“He can't!” Pure despair now shone in Pippin's eyes. Merry was so shocked, he choked on his apple.   
As quick as before, the hobbits turned on their heels and ran away, in order to eat their well-deserved lunch as fast as possible.

“Fellowship?” Boromir didn't find it necessary to hide his sneer. “Will he send a group of elves and rangers for the ringbearer's protection?”

Aragorn looked at him coolly, tiredness in his ageless eyes. “As for the rangers, I will certainly go with Frodo. And Legolas and Gimli from the elves and dwarves have already agreed to come some time ago. I had rather hoped you would join us as well.”

The blatant honesty of this statement hit Boromir unguarded. After all the animosity between them, he had rather believed that the other man would be just as glad as him to part ways. 

“Me? I should return home on the fastest road. I don't think you will be able to travel by horse with the halflings. I don't even know why I tarried so long in the first place.” He frowned and crossed his arms, as if wanting to protect himself from an outside influence on his decisions.

“Maybe because you're meant to accompany us. Our road would be the same anyways for many miles. And I would be honoured to fight alongside you.”

He even made a little bow, but Boromir still didn't buy it. For all his bragging about the people of Gondor (i.e. him) being honest no matter what, he had troubles taking it for face value in others. In these times of war (and that had been his whole life), strangers were a rarity in Gondor. And it was only on rare occasions that the steward's son found it safe to visit their allies in Edoras. Théoden and his kin he trusted, for they had sworn their allegiance to Gondor and were like kindred to him. However, this man was a puzzle to him. He claimed to be Isildur's heir, yet didn't act like it. Why had he spent all of his life in secrecy up here in the north? Why hadn't he come to help and to regain his throne? Surely, if he really was what he claimed to be, Elendil's sword would have already brought the hope and strength to his people that he had looked for so desperately all his life. It simply didn't make sense.

“What route will you take?” A slight flush crept up the back of his neck for ignoring the compliment, but he looked unblinkingly at Aragorn.

“Gandalf has been rather tight-lipped about it the last time I asked, but now that our leave-taking is at hand, he will have to be more precise. Personally, I would try the Caradhras Pass.”

“Caradhras? I haven't heard anything good about that mountain. Why not simply travel south and then go east through the Gap of Rohan?”

Aragorn's face darkened. “Didn't Lord Elrond tell you about Saruman? He has betrayed us all and joined the long list of Mordor's servants. Travelling through Rohan will bring us too close to Isengard. Besides, we don't know on which side the Rohirrim stand in this war. Gandalf hasn't been treated very kindly by their king and he has heard rumours about-”

“Hold on!” Boromir interrupted vehemently. “If Mithrandir, or Gandalf as you all call him, has been treated unkindly, I can think of numerous reasons why that might be so without king Théoden having become a traitor as well! For the Rohirrim have always been friends of Gondor and enemies of Mordor, and it's no small thing to accuse them in this way. I know Éomer, the king's nephew, and if he were here, he'd probably challenge you to a duel.”

“I didn't know you were on such close terms,” Aragorn admitted, but he didn't look surprised at all. Boromir had the uncomfortable feeling that no matter what they were talking about, Aragorn always knew more than he revealed to him. It reminded him of his father, which only increased his irritation.   
If I ever saw this man caught off his guard I'd find it easier to believe him Isildur's heir. He appears more like an Argonath than a living man.

“I haven't been to Edoras often, but every time I have been welcomed most graciously.”

They looked at each other in silence for a while, as if measuring the other. Both knew they wouldn't gain the other's conviction today or any time soon. Aragorn spoke first.

“Will you join me when Lord Elrond decides who shall go with Frodo?”

“So you can trick me into agreeing after all?” Boromir's suspicion only grew the friendlier Aragorn became.

But the contrary seemed to be true for Aragorn, for he laughed heartily, and not even Boromir could find any mockery in the clear ringing sound or his suddenly very lively features.

“You think me capable of that? I swear, I will try no “tricks” on you.” He placed his right hand over his heart.

Boromir smiled grimly. This is his best trick yet, he thought, but only communicated it through the sparkling in his eyes and the lopsided grin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have I tricked you into reviewing yet?:§) By they way, the chapter title was inspired by a most heartwarming fanvid to Phil Collins' "Son of Man". I dare you to check it out and not die of cute!


	3. Chapter 3 - Boromir's Departure

In the end, Boromir gave in. But only partly, as he told himself again and again. He had agreed to accompany the fellowship as far as Minas Tirith. Should they decide to take another, more eastward route, he would continue his way alone, though. Which was why he insisted on taking his horse with them. That, and he had promised Éomer to return Nihthelm – although he had grown surprisingly fond of the fiery mare. Gandalf and Elrond had opposed this of course – when didn't they? But if Bill the Pony could come along, so could Nihthelm.

Pippin had been out of his mind with joy when Boromir had grudgingly joined their group. For some reason Lord Elrond thought it important that they should be nine companions, as opposed to the nine ring-wraiths. Not a very heart-lifting similarity, as Boromir thought. In his opinion, the fellowship was already more than complete. The halfling Frodo and his servant (gardener?), Gandalf as their guide, and a representative of each free people in Middle Earth. But to his dismay, Merry and Pippin had stayed adamant in coming along.

I shouldn't worry so much about them. They're no children, after all (although they certainly behave like that), and even if they were - whoever is responsible for them, it certainly isn't me, he thought in growing irritation.

Nevertheless, he felt like the others didn't share his concerns much. Particularly Gandalf, of whom he had expected quite a different attitude, seemed to be perfectly fine with it and even smiled encouragingly when they stepped forward. Boromir groaned inwardly and tried to talk some sense into all of them by describing the pleasantries of the Black Land. But it was no use.

So it was that the fellowship of the ring set out one dark and dreary December day. They would go south for quite a while at first, before deciding whether to take the Gap of Rohan or cross the Misty Mountains. Apparently Gandalf himself (chosen to be their leader by mute agreement from everyone except Boromir) hadn't decided on which route to take yet.

The following days were probably the most awkward hours of Boromir's life. Never before in his adult life had he travelled with a company of whom he wasn't the leader. It was a small group too, but one of strangers. Boromir continually shook his head when he thought about what other people would think of them, had they seen them wandering silently through the wilderness. For some reason, Boromir felt like the outsider of the group as well. Gandalf was taciturn and gruff most of times, and when he spoke, then mostly in low voices with Aragorn or Legolas, the elf. The latter only talked to Gandalf and Aragorn and stayed for himself the rest of the time. Gimli, the dwarf, was similarly sectionally, disturbing Gandalf with talk about a place called Moria at times or muttering curses about elves into his beard. The little ones alone were cheerful, although Frodo and Sam (Boromir quite praised himself for having learned all names by now) became a little group apart more and more. Boromir had always felt like the latter didn't trust him, but he couldn't think of any offend he might have given.

Only Merry and Pippin fell into step (or tried to) beside him sometimes and bubbled about everything and nothing. He still gave them sword-fighting lessons as well, whenever they would pause and not feel too tired.

They hadn't seen or heard any sign of wild life so far and Aragorn and Gandalf got more and more worried about this. What frustrated Boromir much more though, was the fact, that they fell silent whenever he joined their whispered dialogues.

If there's something to worry about, I should know. Why did they drag me with them, if not as a protector?

He sat down and burned holes into Aragorn's turned back. The sinking feeling in his stomach told him that it had been a mistake to be persuaded into this, but still he could not open up his mind to just leave. Without his volition, his eyes came to rest on the ringbearer. He had never seen this ominous ring and it irked him that no one had asked his opinion on the whole matter. His father would be outraged when he found out that he had missed such an important meeting as Lord Elrond's council. His outcry that it was foolish to throw such a mighty weapon away, especially with all of their lives at risk, had disturbed the half-elf so much, that he hadn't voiced it again. Still, that was exactly what he thought. And his conviction grew every day.

"Boromir?"

He hadn't noticed the halfling - hobbit, as they always insisted on being called- standing beside him with a worried look. Apparently his expression had alarmed him.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Pippin, I've been deep in thought. I assure it is no habit of mine though. Just ask my brother, he'd confirm it."

Pippin giggled. "I'd really like to meet your brother. You've talked so much about him, I already feel like I've known him for ages. But I've got a feeling he wouldn't actually say all those awful things about you, as you want to make me believe."

"Do you have siblings, master ha-, hobbit?"

"I do!" Pippin proclaimed proudly. "Three sisters, to be precise, and they're all older than me."

"And do you always speak well of them?"

"Well, I wish I could! But sometimes they're just so much of a...of a handful!"

"There you go!" Boromir stated proudly between laughter, as if he had just proven a highly controversial and complicated point.

Pippin looked a bit crestfallen, but didn't give up so easily.

"But you see, they also complain about me; say that I'm a mischievous, little troublemaker, and all such things!"

"I can't imagine," Boromir remarked dryly.

"Yes, indeed!" Pippin emphasised vehemently, completely immune to sarcasm.

"And I never have heard you talk ill about your little brother," he ended, smugness all written over his face, blasting Boromir's scientific pretences to smithereens.

Boromir raised his eyebrows in appreciation. "Aye, you're probably right. But I must thank you for pointing out this lapse of brotherly affection of mine, I shall try to make up for it at once!"

"But-!" was all that Pippin's abilities of discussion could bring forth against this unfair move. He looked like a child that was losing a game and was about to proclaim indignantly that they wouldn't play along any more.

"Really, he's such a bother," Boromir continued, trying to ignore Pippin's mute struggle, but failing in controlling the left corner of his mouth. "He never listens to me and teases me incessantly. He annoys me with his big elvish words and embarrasses me in public. He contradicts every word I say and never agrees with me."

Finally Pippin found a straw to grab again. "That's because that is our job, of us younger siblings I mean! We have to contradict our elders and be of a different opinion, otherwise their heads would grow impossibly big and they'd think their way of doing things was the only way how to do things!"

Boromir stared at him in wonder; he had thought that he had beaten him with his tirade, but then he realised how applicable his little friend's words were just now and burst into laughter.

"Upon my word, you are wiser than they give you credit for. You should wear that pointy hat and staff."

"And a long, grey beard too," Pippin agreed heartily.

"Are you planning mutiny already?" Gandalf was standing behind them all of a sudden and both jumped like frightened school boys. Boromir regained his rebellious spirit quickly though.

"On the contrary, Mithrandir, we're wallowing in praises of you."

"Meaning I should better keep an eye on you two. I thought it would only be Master Took, but I'm beginning to have doubts about your influence on him."

"I think Pippin can judge for himself what influence he chooses to seek."

There was a fire in Boromir's eyes now - he didn't like to be treated like a naughty child, nor that people spoke in the third person of someone present. He got a taste of that too often at home.

"Yes, he can," Pippin piped up, encouraged by Boromir's example.

Gandalf looked from one to the other for a while before he shook his head and muttered "Just what I meant!" in walking away.

"Looks like we put the dragon to flight this time, master hobbit. I'd be on the lookout for revenge in the next days nevertheless."

Pippin grinned his dimply grin and nodded. "Except that it will be nights, because we're sleeping away all the days. I don't think I'll ever get used to that."

"This hiding way of marching doesn't agree with me either. But the enemy will probably take notice of us sooner than we like it, and then no amount of sneakiness and caution will help us."

Boromir's words proved to be truer than even he thought. When they had made camp shortly after sunrise the next day, a big flock of crows passed over them. Aragorn and Gandalf reacted at once and shouted for everyone to lie flat on the ground and hide themselves.

"Crebain from Dunland," was Legolas' calm statement after the birds had vanished on the horizon.

Aragorn exchanged a meaningful look with Gandalf, before speaking. "The road south is lost to us. We must make haste and turn eastward, to cross the mountains on the Caradhras-pass."

"What? Because of a few birds?"

Boromir turned around from helping Merry up in shock.

"They're not just normal birds. They're spies of Saruman," Aragorn explained patiently.

Boromir had no patience to spare.

"So what? We would have been discovered sooner or later anyway. That's no reason to overthrow our plans this quickly and take a route that might prove much more dangerous."

"Overthrow your plans, Boromir. I never counted the Gap of Rohan as an option," Gandalf put in gravely.

"Fine."

Boromir grapped his knapsack, which had fallen to the ground, and took the reins of his horse.

"If that's everyone's conviction, I will stick to mine."

Pippin threw over Merry again in his haste to reach Boromir and grab the part next to him, which happened to be his knee.

"You don't really mean to leave, do you? You mustn't be angry with them, but what if they're right and the road south is too dangerous?"

Boromir snorted fondly at this show of affection and bent down to be eye-to-eye with his little friend.

"Don't worry about me, Pippin. I've had the honour of meeting quite a number of spies from Mordor already, and I don't think these will be worse."

"But you're on your own now, without any soldiers," Aragorn reminded him.

Standing up, Boromir's face, which had been soft and full of care just now, turned into a mask of defiance and pride with frightening quickness.

"I am aware of that, thank you. I made the way here alone and know all the ways, besides I'm quite capable of planning myself and lead pursuers astray. I've been on my own on enemy territory before."

"You're not a lonely rider any more though. You're a member of the fellowship now and Saruman probably knows that by now."

Boromir flared his nostrils and drew himself up to his full height. "I resent that notion. I always stated that I wouldn't want to have anything to do with this fellowship-nonsense. And now I'll go – I hope you won't regret your decision to try that cursed mountain and will fulfil your task."

His eyes swayed towards Frodo, before coming to a rest on Merry and Pippin.

"Take care, little ones, and don't forget what I taught you. Maybe we'll meet again some day." He ruffled their hair with each hand and mounted quickly without looking back, lest they might notice the tinge of red in his eyes.

Pippin was sniffing and puffy-eyed for the whole remainder of the day and couldn't even be cheered up by dinner (or second breakfast, as Merry called it hopefully). The next day didn't change much either and even when they were half buried in snow, he still looked more sullen because of Boromir's absence than because of the fact that he couldn't feel his toes any more.

When Caradhras had finally defeated them and they were back to camping between the hills and pine trees, Merry had managed to get his cousin as far as complaining about the night-wandering again. But not only about that.

"I still think, if Boromir had been there, he and Aragorn could have made a path through the snow for us, and Gandalf wouldn't have had to use his hat as burning material."

Gandalf shot him a withering look, but didn't comment on this often repeated wail. He was far too preoccupied with their future journey.

They were about to have a council on which route to take now, when a marrow-chilling howl made them all look up. The shocked silence only lasted for a few heartbeats, after which a whole chorus of cruel cries joined the first.

"Wolves," Legolas stated as contained as ever.

The hobbits' eyes widened in fear. Even though everyone had recognised the howling at once, it still was an additional scare to hear it as a plain fact.

"They're still far away though," Aragorn made aware. "We should look quickly for a good place to ward them off."

"These will certainly be no ordinary wolves. They're spies and just as dangerous as orcs. Quick!"

With the last word, Gandalf had lighted his staff and lead the way to the highest hill in their vicinity. Even though his teeth were shaking with fear, Pippin still was able to communicate his uppermost worry to Merry.

"These are spies too? But what if Boromir encountered them?"

Pippin never received an answer to this, because the next thing he knew was that Aragorn ushered him next to the other hobbits, beneath a pine tree, after which he unsheathed his sword and lunged at the first wolf.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The sun was fading away behind the mist as Boromir wrapped his fur cloak closer around his shoulders. To no great avail though, seeing that he was in icy cold water up to his knees. After finding the trail of at least four wolves the other day, he had decided to take no risk and let Nihthelm wade through the waters of the Glanduin, as long as possible (he hoped to leave them behind in the swamps of Swanfleet at the latest, so he could make the short way to the North-South-Road). The westward detour annoyed him, but unlike Aragorn's apparent belief he was not featherbrained.

To his own surprise though he wasn't enjoying the long hours of silence as much as on his journey to Rivendell. Not at all.

It's better than being treated like an outcast in any case, he thought. But it didn't make him feel better.

Twilight began to dim and Boromir realised that he couldn't let the poor horse stay in the water any longer. Unbeknownst to him, he had been far luckier with the weather than his former companions in the mountains. Down in the valley, winter wasn't half as harsh and he had thanked the Valar that the river hadn't been frozen. Nevertheless he had to camp on the marshy shore – he could only cover up his tracks as carefully as possible and pray that the muddy ground wouldn't freeze either. Still, he was only baking on ordinary wolves, the likes of which he had seen tracks of and heard in the woods many times before.

The fire was crackling happily, but despite the fact that he had finally done what he had proclaimed to be his duty, Boromir felt no relief. And there was no little brother nor Pippin whom he could assure that everything was all right. Had it really been right to leave the fellowship? What bothered him most was not that he worried about them not being able to cope without him, but that he had lost his chance to ever take a look at that cursed ring. It made him uneasy, because he had no idea why this was so important to him all of a sudden. When he had left home, it had only been to protect Faramir – in truth he didn't think much of prophecies or voices in dreams, even if he had heard it himself once. But now this so called Bane of Isildur was taking up more and more space in his mind.

Being so deep in thought, he didn't notice the sounds of rustling leaves behind him until it was too late.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reviews are lembas for the soul of a wandering writer!:D


	4. Chapter 4 - Legends Are Lessons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys, here's the new chapter – this one's really a special one for me because there's one of the first bits I wrote for this fanfic and we finally get to meet my favourite brother and sister in the whole of Middle Earth!:D I had so much fun writing Éowyn interacting with Boromir, I wish we could have had that in the books or movies. It would be great to get feedback on that from you, it would mean a lot!:3 Other than that, excuse my lame orc-writing, I found that very hard. I just never know whether to humanise them or demonise them, and it looks like Tolkien couldn't make up his mind whether they're born evil or just corrupted himself. Anyways, I really hope you enjoy this one!

When he regained his consciousness, Boromir couldn't say whether ten minutes had passed or ten days. All he knew was that his head ached as if someone had hit him with a club. Thinking about it, that was probably what had happened.

Having been warned of such a situation all of his life, he tried to listen carefully before opening his eyes. There were heavy footsteps, grunting, and on top of that a sickening stench that was stronger than all auditory input taken together. There was no doubt left in his mind that he had been captured by orcs. Repressing the surge of self-reprimands and curses that threatened to drown his coherent thinking, he tried to keep a cool head and dared to open one eye for a second.

_At least 20 of them. Looks like they've been on their feet for quite some time (but then again, they're orcs, so who can tell for sure). If only I could get rid of these damn bonds._

Boromir hadn't seen much of it, but from the feeling and sound of it, he was lying on some sort of wooden litter on which his wrists and ankles were bound. Though certainly glad for it, he couldn't understand why they hadn't just killed him and were going through the atypical toil of building a device for carrying and dragging him through the wilderness.

Unwelcome as ever, Aragorn's words came back to him. What if these were spies? But apparently with more of a mission than to just survey and scout. No orc would spontaneously take prisoners if it weren't for specific orders.

_From Saruman?_

He had heard of him before, mostly from his history lessons (which he didn't remember too often) and then some mentions from Faramir (his little brother used to remember their lessons for both of them). And lastly from Gandalf, of course. His words weren't very comforting either. But how could Saruman have found out of the existence of the fellowship and sent spies towards them so quickly?

Boromir had the nagging presentiment that he wouldn't try to persuade him to join forces with Sauron as he did with Gandalf. But of what use could he be to him? Ignoring the dizzying pain, he tried to collect all scraps of memories of what Lord Elrond had told him on his first day.

_As far as I understood it...Saruman knows that the ring is in the hands of a hobbit. So why would he not tell his servants to look out for those?_

Try as he might, Boromir couldn't wrap his head around it. Even if he hadn't been disturbed in his distressed wondering by the sudden stop of the steady movement, he felt that he wouldn't have arrived anywhere near a conclusion.

"That's it for today! Make camp, ye rusty maggots and don't forget to keep your bloody eyes on that swanky pile of meat!"

 _Swanky?_ Boromir frowned despite his resolution to not move an inch.

His determination was undermined further by a growing feeling of hunger. If his stomach grumbled now, the orcs might take notice of him and force him to eat some of their tainted food. But eat he had to at one point and he still had no idea how much time had passed since his last dinner. Plus, lying in the same position for hours? Days? was starting to press its painful consequences onto his still sluggish mind.

He wondered whether they would let him walk by himself if he showed signs of consciousness. They wouldn't have to drag him along any more, which would speak for it. But on the other hand they might distrust him too much for that – he was tall and strong after all, and still dangerous even with his hands tied.

Boromir briefly considered playing a harmless fool, but dismissed that idea soon enough, seeing that his weapons and clothing decried his station and abilities. Sadly not even orcs were that stupid.

So in the end, things occurred as they had to occur – since it didn't make any difference to his advantage to wait until the next day (and he really was getting hungry now), Boromir opened his eyes, studied his captors quietly for a while until they took notice of him.

Then followed of course a great clamour and a storm of teasing, insulting, and hitting ensued; which he took so calmly, it even surprised himself. Afterwards they cut him free from the uncomfortable litter, but only long enough to watch him swallow down a bit of stone-hard bread (he had to force himself not to think about it particularly). Then he was bound to a tree for the rest of the day. After racking his brains to come up with an escape plan, he tried to get some sleep, but that was no use either. Being surrounded by snoring orcs and one guard, who looked as if he was wondering how to kill you most painfully, didn't exactly act as a sedative. And then there was the call of nature. It took him almost half an hour to convince his guard that they would all die of most atrocious illnesses if he didn't let him relieve himself somewhere in the forest. Seemingly of a creative sort, the taciturn orc actually bound a long rope around his neck for the purpose – a leash in short. He obviously had great skill in knot-binding, because no matter how hard Boromir tried, there was no way of even loosening it.

The next day, the rest of the group showered Galzuk (apparently the guard's name) with praise for his conception. They decided to lead their prisoner like this, with his hands bound of course. Boromir was glad to be spared the litter, but couldn't help to feel the additional indignation that this way of moving forward brought with it. Some orcs at the other end of the leash (they took turns after some hours) made it a sport to drag him around until he would stumble and fall.

"Not such a pretty princeling any more, eh? C'mon, keep going, you rat, no resting!"

Boromir just shot him a dark look and spit out the blood that had filled his mouth after the last fall onto a particularly hard rock. If only his brother and his men were here. Or the riders of Rohan. Or that darn fellowship. But this was Dunland. The only signs of settlement were tiny house lights at the horizon and the people had obviously no wish to get into trouble with orcs as long as they weren't attacked themselves. There was no other explanation for the fact that they were marching in the middle of the North-South-Road and camped not far from it at daytime.

Things have gotten far worse since I last travelled this road, Boromir had to admit. What if Aragorn and Gandalf had been right and Rohan was controlled by Saruman now. Or even allied with him?

_Nonsense! Théoden would never let that happen. Nor Théodred or Éomer. They'd sooner throw themselves into Mt Doom._

Days and nights passed in this manner and still Boromir had gathered no clue as to why he had been captured in the first place. At least he was fairly sure that they were taking him to Isengard now – he had overheard Ruda (the leader of the group) arguing with another orc about their route. The latter was apparently against passing the Gap of Rohan, as it would carry the risk of being spotted by the Rohirrim. Instead he proposed to reach Isengard from a more northern route, by making their way through the last spurs of the Misty Mountains. Ruda however got very angry whenever he would mention this. He said that they had no time to crawl through the labyrinth of pathless mountains and that it would take even longer with a prisoner.

_So Saruman told him to make haste. Why? And this also means that Rohan is still resisting and the orcs are scared of passing through it. Good._

Boromir leaned his head back against the tree trunk that he was bound to. A host of stars gazed down upon him. He remembered stargazing on his journey to Rivendell and as a child with his mother. But in between? He never had had much time for it. Or didn't take the time.

 _I wonder if Faramir's looking up at the stars too now_ , he mused.

He smiled, remembering the last time he had seen his brother stargazing.

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Sitting as close to the fire as possible, Boromir tried to get at least some of the dried mud from his clothes. It had been a hard day, patrolling through Ithilien, being ambushed by a group of orcs, and then being surprised by a downfall of rain, which turned the ever-wrecked streets of Osgiliath into a swamp.

Giving up the cleaning as a bad job, Boromir glanced around at his brother. He would never understand how he could still look as calm as he had this morning. And lying on the ground too, gazing up at the clear sky.

"Brother, you will catch cold like that."

Faramir didn't turn his face, but even so he knew that he was smiling in his typical Faramir-way.

"Don't worry about me. You heard the men today. I am invulnerable."

Boromir frowned deeply, thinking of how close to getting wounded his little brother had been several times during the attack.

"If I had known that you believed even a hint of that, I would have sent you back home, bound in a sack, in an instant."

He turned and got up now, laughing like a child.

"Brother, you worry too much! Come, lie next to me and tell me if you can find Earendil."

Boromir pulled a face and lay down with a humph. He blinked at the darkness and the stars blinked back. After a while of blinking, he sighed.

"This is just like old times. You know I couldn't name a star back then on a chart nor can I now on the sky."

Faramir tried to suppress his chuckle, but it came out anyway, a bit distorted and muffled.

"It's the big, bright one just over there-" he pointed eastward, "just above the horizon. It's the easiest star to find!"

"Whatever you say."

"Come now, I can still remember that you always found Menelmacar, and that's a whole constellation."

"That's because he's my favourite. But he won't be here until October."

"So you do know a thing or two about astronomy."

"That's about it."

"That and the fact that the sun rises every morn-OUCH!"

A brotherly slap had hindered Faramir from concluding his statement. A bit of slapping and kicking ensued, ending typically in loud laughter.

"It is just like old times," Faramir concluded a bit too absent-mindedly for Boromir's taste, after they had calmed down again. Too obviously inferring that these times were gone forever. "What happened to our adventures, brother? What happened to fighting dragons?"

"You know that the dragons were all killed or retreated far, far to the northern lands," Boromir repeated his childhood knowledge about dragons, in lack of knowing what to say to that.

"No, you know what I mean. How did adventures become war?" Faramir's eyes were fixed upwards, searching the stars for answers.

What he had suspected became certainty, as Boromir realised that his brother's calmness during the battle was only skin deep. He always knew that he was more sensitive and processed things differently than he did. The resolution to keep a closer eye on him the next time arose automatically, but he knew that he couldn't protect him forever. Someday there would be that one time when he couldn't be there.

He longed to say There will be adventures again after the war, but his tongue was glued to his throat all of a sudden.

Faramir turned his head and saw the same insecurity and pain that he felt mirrored on his brother's expression. Not wanting to give in to the feeling of hopelessness that gnawed at his insides, Boromir grasped at the next best thing he could think of.

"We'll see this city restored. Just give me a few more weeks and the walls will be strong enough to resist all assaults."

Faramir smiled, albeit not as happily as before.

"You'd rebuild Osgiliath on your own if you had the chance, I know; all complete with bells and window shutters."

"I would. And the great Dome of Stars too – maybe you could teach me a thing or two about astronomy in there."

"Well, Osgiliath means Citadel of the Host of Stars in Sindarin, so if there's a perfect place to learn about the stars, then it's here." The smile had grown deeper.

"Ah, here you go, speaking in elvish tongues again. Very well." Boromir clapped his brother's shoulder lightly. "Now tell me, what's that reddish star to the right? I bet it has a very long Quenya-name."

Faramir's smile had become very knowing by now, but he didn't object, he just kicked his brother's foot in a loving fashion.

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Menelmacar was staring down at Boromir, but he found it difficult to find much consolation in him right now.

He had to escape somehow before they reached Isengard. Even though they had passed the Gap now, there was no guarantee that they would meet any Rohirrim or that they would succeed in defeating the orcs and freeing him. Ruda was making such haste now, they had walked the entire last night and day – which emphasised the pressure he was under more than anything, for orcs hated daylight. But even if he somehow managed to get his guard to unbind him under some pretext, there was no way of overcoming him without waking up the others. And even if he did escape, where could he go and stay save before they started searching for him? If he had the opportunity Boromir would simply try his luck, but the days of imprisonment had lulled his spirit somewhat. He had never before been captured by his enemies and it was no experience he could gain something positive from.

_I bet Faramir would find something. Learning to be patient, maybe. Well, so far it's not working and I'm not keen on being Saruman's patient prisoner either._

It was all just so wrong. Maybe he shouldn't have left the fellowship. Maybe he should never have left home. Deep down in his heart he had known that his place was with his people. But he couldn't have borne to let Faramir leave. That was probably the root of all evil. His selfish reasoning. He should trust his little brother more to be able to survive on his own. But then it had always been his job to protect him. How could he just let go of that?

_Click-clack_

Boromir's eyelids flickered. Had he just imagined that sound?

_Click-clack click-clack_

He opened his eyes. There definitely had been a sound. A sound so hopeful, he had to hold his breath. Was it coming nearer? Or leaving?

Now his guard had noticed it too, judging from the way he was looking around in panic all of a sudden. He rushed to where Ruda was lying, but in that very instant an arrow hit his shoulder. Panic broke out as he let out a bloodcurdling scream and everyone jumped up in confusion. Boromir could hear the neighing of frightened horses in the darkness but still couldn't see any of the attackers. Ruda was cursing and bellowing orders at once but no one listened to him.

"Rohirrim! Eorlingas! Aid your brother!"

Boromir shouted into the night, not wanting to risk being hit by a stray arrow or spear. He didn't know if any of the riders had heard him, but he realised his mistake when Ruda turned around and rushed towards him with a mad growl. It was obvious that he didn't want the prisoner to survive even if that meant his own death.

"HELP!"

Another desperate call, even though his voice wouldn't quite obey him any more. His eyes were fixed on the tip of the knife which Ruda had raised high over his head, ready to silence him forever. Boromir closed his eyes as he brought down his arm, waiting for the impact and the pain. But instead he just heard a muffled cry and something falling to the ground.

Opening his eyes in shock, he saw Ruda wrestling with a man in a blur of shadows and blinking steel. He writhed and tugged frantically at the rope, but it was no use, he couldn't come to his saviour's aid.

More men and horses appeared on the clearing now, attacking the orcs, which had not escaped yet.

Ruda had managed to get up by now, kicking away the man's helmet in the process. He gave an angry cry and Boromir caught a glimpse of his face for a second. He couldn't believe his eyes.

Just in that moment, Ruda fell from one of the man's blows and did not rise again. It had become silent around them, the heat from the battle suddenly turning into something cold and empty – Boromir had experienced this many times before.

The man looked around, panting and bleeding from a head wound.

"Éomer!"

Boromir stared at him in amazement, still incredulous. He had never been so relieved to see him.

Smirking, Éomer got up and walked over to free him.

"I recognised your voice at once. I'm glad I didn't listen to Hama, who said it would be too dangerous to get off my horse."

"I'm glad too. I'd be with Mandos now, if you hadn't been there in time. I owe you my life, brother."

Never before had he titled him thus; it was a sign of how grateful he was. Éomer looked surprised for a moment, when Boromir pulled him into a hug, but then smiled proudly.

"It was a matter of course, brother. You are always welcome in Rohan. But I fear it hasn't treated you well so far. We must amend that. Come, you shall tell me all of your misfortunes on our ride to Edoras. For surely you will come with us to our home?"

He looked doubtful at the last bit, knowing that Boromir had been on a very important mission when he had seen him the last time.

"I will gladly do so. It seems like too long since I dwelt with friendly folk."

After tending to the wounded and burying the dead, they set up their camp for the rest of the night on the other side of the Isen. Boromir and Éomer were sitting near the fire, the latter now with a small bandage around his front head.

"How come you're so far north of Edoras and beyond the river?"

Boromir had just finished telling Éomer his tale about Rivendell, hobbits, the fellowship, and being captured by orcs.

"The same reason that brought you here, I suppose." His face darkened and he looked much older to Boromir now than the last time they had met.

"Saruman," he spat. "The number of orcs around our borders has increased so quickly, we hardly know where they come from. Théodred was adamant on sending out more men to them and having a look for ourselves. He and his men went for Eastemnet, while I went in the opposite direction. Though I was less than happy to leave my uncle and sister alone with that snake." His face became even fiercer, something Boromir would not have thought possible.

"You mean the king's advisor? I remember you mentioning him last time. What about him?"

"He poisons Théoden's mind. Feeds him lies about how everything is going smoothly in his land and tries to turn him against Théodred and me. I have no proof for it yet, but I think he's a spy of Saruman."

Boromir stared. How often had he heard that term now? It made him think of the group of people he left behind and a stone of guilt fell heavy onto his heart out of nowhere. Where were they now and how were they faring? Had they made it over the Caradhras-pass? Had they remembered to take firewood with them?

"What is it? You seem troubled," Éomer brought him out of his reverie.

"It's nothing. Just that I've heard about Saruman and his spies far too often now. Enough to get annoyed by it. I don't want to meddle in your affairs, but it seems to me like someone should just go over to Isengard and kick him out."

Éomer laughed so loudly and mirthfully, several men around them, turned and stopped where they were.

"You have the right spirit! Believe, I'd do just that if it were that easy. But wizards are a bit too much for me or an ordinary army. I think we'd need some help for that."

"Well, I'd say Gandalf would be just the right candidate. But instead he's leading these poor hobbits to their doom." He grimaced, having arrived back at that hurting wound.

"I don't understand much about what you told me about that ring, but if they really know how to defeat the shadow in the east, it would be a miracle. I have a feeling Saruman would be a great deal less powerful then. But come, tell me more about those merry creatures – I can't believe the holbytla from the fairytales really exist."

Boromir smiled as he sighed. There was no escape of this topic.

After two days of riding through the grassland of Rohan (Boromir kept apologising for not being able to return Nihthelm – luckily she had been more attentive than her rider and had broken loose at the smell of orcs) they arrived at Edoras in the early evening.

People were obviously happy to see Éomer and his men return. It made Boromir think woefully of his own home and wondering what welcome he would receive there. He never had been away for so long.

Entering the great hall, Meduseld, was different from the last time. It seemed to be more gloomy, even though there was the same smoke outlet, and much colder too, even though a fire of the same size was burning in the hearth.

He immediately recognised Gríma, who had not been present during his last short visit, from Éomer's description. Standing in a crouched manner near the throne, he eyed him suspiciously and started whispering to Théoden's bent head. Turning his gaze on him, Boromir almost stopped dead from the shock of seeing him so changed. It seemed as though he had aged 30 years or more – hair as white and frail as ashes, skin as cracked as old parchment, and eyes barely alight.

"My liege, I have returned from the western boarders of your kingdom, and the numbers of orcs we encountered are alarming, I suggest that-"

"And who is that?"

Gríma didn't even bother to act as if he had been listening to what Éomer was saying, he just flatly pointed at Boromir, who felt his dislike for this man rise like the tide.

"I am Boromir, son of Denethor, steward of Gondor", Boromir answered defiantly.

"What business does Gondor have in the Riddermark?"

"I would gladly tell the king about our common business. But it does not concern you."

Éomer made a half-hearted movement, as if to restrain him, but didn't protest out loud. Boromir knew that he was pleased to hear someone other than Théodred talk back to Gríma, but wasn't too sure whether it was wise.

Gríma just raised his brows and lowered his eyelashes in contempt and generally looked as if he was making a mental addition of Boromir to his worst enemies.

"My king, will you not welcome our guest?" Éomer tried once more to rouse his uncle before leaving. Boromir felt a sudden sting when he thought about how hard it must be to watch someone you love slip away like that.

But Théoden gave no sign of even having heard his nephew, which elicited a cruel smile from Gríma.

After taking a rest from the ride and generally the last week's events, Boromir went down to the lit and filled hall to share the celebration of Éomer and his men's return. Everything looked much merrier than before, but he could make out neither the king nor Gríma anywhere. After a moment of confusion, he found Éomer at the other side of the hall; deep in conversation with a noble-looking woman.

"Lady Éowyn, " he addressed her as he approached the siblings. "It's good to see you again!"

She turned in surprise, not having noticed him before, but a quizzical smile soon spread over her features.

"Lord Boromir," she returned. "I'm glad to see you returned safely from your long journey. You were in luck when my brother and his men crossed the Isen."

"Indeed, I was. I wouldn't be here otherwise. But come, let us talk about merrier things. Have you managed to heal that ill mare you told me about in summer?"

Éowyn's face lit up and he noticed the same change as in her brother.

They don't smile enough and deserve more peaceful times, he thought.

"I have! She had to rest and stay inside a week longer, but now she's running and grazing outside again."

"Because you stole the ingredients for that brew from Gríma's stock," Éomer added teasingly.

"It wasn't stealing when he stole it before," Éowyn hissed. "Besides it was just the white moss and willow bark. They were missing from old Elfgifu's stock and he had the exact amount. What do you say to that?"

Boromir noticed that her accent was getting heavier when she spoke in anger; she instinctively seemed to want to return to her mother tongue.

"I don't blame you, it was well done, sister," Éomer tried to appease her. "Just be careful about him."

"I'm not scared of him or anyone," she stated, speaking louder and drawing herself up to her full height. "And I know very well how to look after myself. If you'll excuse me now," she nodded to Boromir. "I will go and look after uncle."

And with that she gracefully, but quickly, went away, her hair bristling with electricity.

"Is the king unwell?" Boromir asked after a short awkward silence.

"As unwell as he always is nowadays." The shadow settled on Éomer's face once more, much too smoothly. "He retires early and rises late. I don't know when he has last left the hall, but he won't let anyone near him, except that slithering snake and Éowyn. But not even she can shake the spell from him which is wearing him down."

They sat down and in time Éomer introduced him to several noblemen and retainers. All in all, Boromir couldn't shake the feeling that he was less welcome than before. People didn't seem to be very interested in news from Gondor or anything that happened beyond their borders. The later it got and the more they drank, the more hostile they became towards him. Which bothered him and got his temper fired up. And he drank a bit too.

Éomer tried to keep him low and direct the conversation to different things, but he had a hard time. Boromir's descriptions of Mordor especially seemed to unease and disturb the people around him, which was probably why he kept returning to that topic. Still, he thought when he remembered the events of the evening later on, that was no reason for the insult he received next.

"Gondor may have to deal with all that, but here we have other problems. Isengard has turned against us and the Dunlanders are querulous."

Boromir stood up. The whole hall fell silent, as everyone watched him step up to stand in front of the throne.

"More than 500 years ago, my ancestor Cirion, son of Boromir, was in need of help. An army of Easterlings had set over the Anduin and attacked the region of Gondor known as Calenardhon. Now, Cirion send for help to the people known as Éothéod, living high in the north at the shores of the-"

"We all know the story!" Someone shouted all of a sudden. Many grumbling voices agreed; some angry and some drunken, proclaiming that he was drunk. Shock and confusion paralysed Boromir for a moment or two – he had never felt such hostility towards him in this land.

"You know your dates well. I thought Faramir was the scholar out of you two," a friendly voice said.

He looked down, and saw Éomer's encouraging smile. What he had wanted to say changed, but now he knew how to carry on.

"Aye, and so it is. But my mother already taught me this particular lesson when I was but a small child, so I wouldn't ever forget it."

Before he continued, his brave gaze crossed the hall and he challenged everyone to look him in the eye.

"So Cirion sent for help. But no one came. He waited. Waited for one year."

A soft ruffling sound to his left made him pause. Out of the corner of his eyes he could make out a dark green sleeve quickly vanishing behind a red and golden painted pillar. He smiled to himself; the feeling of pride and comradeship that he wanted to incite with his story rising and spreading strongly in his chest.

"Finally he decided to face the attackers on his own. But Gondor's army was outnumbered and it was driven back over the river Limlight to the Field of Celebrant. Additionally to the Easterlings there were orcs, swarming down from the Misty Mountains. They had no hope for escape."

Turning around and stepping to the side, he pointed to the tapestry hanging behind the throne. It showed a warrior on horseback, launching forward with a golden sword and painted shield.

"Eorl the Young. Even though the call for help had reached him so late and even though he knew that it would probably be too late, he and his army rode for Gondor. Nothing bound him to the kings and stewards of this country except an old friendship."

He turned again, suddenly tired. The story spoke for itself, couldn't they see it?

"He saved them. And in return, he and his people received the land they had helped to defend to call it their home forevermore. And so it is, until this day."

His gesturing hand dropped and he looked around once more. Some expressions were moved, others just as dismissive as before. Sighing, he returned to his seat. This wasn't his day.

Éomer clapped his shoulder and took the place he just left.

"And so it shall remain! The darker the times, the stronger the bond. Let us drink to the friendship of Rohan and Gondor!"

He raised his cup and first only the men of his household cheered, but then the rest joined gradually, albeit not as enthusiastically as Boromir would have hoped.

Grinning smugly, he let himself plop next to his friend.

"Nice speech. Really short. I shall return to that model next time," the Gondorian growled, ignoring the beer Éomer had shoved under his nose.

"Don't be put out, brother. Our folk may not be as sophisticated as your lot, but trust me, they will remember your words when the time comes. You'll see."

Emphasising his words, he clapped Boromir's shoulders once more, just when the latter had been mollified enough to take a sip of his beer. A medley of choking, coughing, and loud laughter followed inevitably.

The next day, both Éomer and Boromir had to cope with the unpleasant after-effects of too much beer, even that of such a good brew as in Edoras.

"My head feels as if a complete Éored had ridden over it."

Boromir chuckled, but regretted it immediately. Holding his head with both hands, he said:

"Don't you have some sort of medicine against this? In Gondor, we have this tea, don't ask me what the herbs are called..."

"You should have brought those herbs with you. I know nothing of the like, but I can ask my sister for something against head-ache. She has a bit of knowledge about herbs and plants, as you know, but better not ask her to brew it for us. She couldn't cook something edible to save her life."

"My brother knows about herbs AND cooks very well," Boromir retorted, filled with fraternal pride.

"Congratulations. Bring him next time then," Éomer remarked dryly, while getting up.

Not having learned anything, Boromir sniggered again. He took another bite from his bread, but it couldn't distract him from the growing feeling of guilt that sprang at him like a wild beast every time he thought of or mentioned his little brother. How long since he had waved goodbye to him?

"Heafodlacnung."

Completly bewildered, Boromir turned to see Éowyn coming towards him from the door at the other side of the hall. Her smile was a big too smug for her words to have been nothing more than a harmless morning greeting.

"Was that Rohirrim for "drunken idiot?"

Her laughter was not unlike her brother's, only lighter, like a quick flowing stream in the mountains. But he also saw the deep lines of worry etched on her young face.

"That is the name of the herb you're looking for. Besides," she added and her face became as grim as if she was about to ride into battle, "my brother exaggerates. My cooking really isn't that bad! I make quite a tasty stew, I assure you."

Boromir grinned, slightly embarrassed. Getting between disagreeing siblings was not wise.

"Do you always listen in the shadows, my lady? If so, I'll have to watch my tongue in the future."

A quick-passing blush crept over her cheeks, but she smiled boldly in defence.

"With all due respect, my lord, I don't think you'd be able to do that. Your tongue seems to be in closer alliance to your heart than to your head, anatomically speaking."

This time Boromir really didn't mind the thudding pain in his skull when he laughed out loud.

"You are quite right, because I wouldn't have reined in my mirth even if I had the double amount of mûmakil rampaging in said head."

Éowyn joined his laughter, relieved that he had gotten her meaning and not taken it as an insult.

"I hope you don't mind it if I say that I greatly admired your story last night. I know you thought me watching Théoden, but he had fallen asleep soon and was quite at rest."

"It's not in my place to question your dutifulness. Besides, I know how you and Éomer care for your uncle."

"Well, I was getting drowsy myself when I noticed how everyone in the hall fell silent all of a sudden and I wondered what was going on. When I heard your voice, I thought I must be dreaming because it felt like the old days had returned."

Boromir was stunned.

"Even if not one single man in the hall took my words to heart, I'm still glad that it was worth my while, for you understood them best."

Right then, Éomer returned, looking annoyed at first and then surprised, with a quick recession to the former.

"Éowyn! I was looking for you everywhere!"

"I'm sorry, brother, I had no idea. Were you just looking for my amiable company or was there an ulterior motive?"

Éomer looked incredulously at Boromir, who was snorting into his goblet, causing little bubbles to emerge.

"Why do I get the feeling that I should never have left?"

Giggling, Éowyn got up and patted her brother's head gently.

"Don't worry, brother, we haven't conspired against you. Yet. I shall get you your head-healing."

She left in a rustle of white gown and mirth.

"You know, I think when it comes to sassiness, your sister absolutely beats my brother."

"Oh, you think that consoles me now, don't you?"

Éowyn heard the mix of warm, deep laughter from the kitchen and had to smile to herself. She really felt that there was still hope in this moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reviews give me hope.:)

**Author's Note:**

> Reviews are loved by both hobbits and humans!:3


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